


End To An Injust Dream

by spiraljoel



Category: Devil May Cry, Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiraljoel/pseuds/spiraljoel
Summary: You can't keep your eyes shut forever.[A short drabble I wrote on my break at work today. Not proofread, I wrote it in like an hour, haha.]





	End To An Injust Dream

A few chunks of rock, caught on Sparda's carapace, crumbled and broke off of the stalagmite as he dragged himself off of it. The sensation of stone dissolving within his body was uncomfortable, but he didn't have time to reach into the wounds and remove the shrapnel himself. Not with this one.

 

Was this fear?

 

Sparda was Mundus' champion, general of all his legions, constructed as a mockery of the human knighthood that opposed their ranks. He felt naught but loyalty and conviction, utmost pride in his undying servitude to the will of his master. There was no joy, no satisfaction, but no sadness, and no anger. His duty was everything. He  _ was  _ his duty. Never before had he hesitated or felt reluctance in furthering the cause he was made for, whether leading conquests against rivals in Hell or the stubborn livestock of Earth. Such was their divine right, by way of Mundus' strength. The Qliphoth had chosen him as the next Emperor, after all. Resistance was blasphemy. He never doubted that.

 

Now, in the face of  _ apocalyptic  _ vindiction, he realized that there were more forces in the universe than mere destiny.

 

The Dark Knight had heard the legends before, but never believed he would be face to face with their subject. Hell was simply too large for it to be likely. If he did, it would merely be another misguided legacy he put to rest. 

 

His fear was expedited by an explosion of pain as tiny, shredding chunks of metal and hatred tore through his body, opening up new agonies before the previous wounds could finish closing. Had he become reckless? Over-reliant on his durability?

 

No. No, he had never faltered. Sparda was a creature dedicated to infallible, honorable servitude. He had never slacked, never become complacent, always striving to be better than perfect. This dedication was the core of his being; the foundation that held his body and soul together.

 

All the more painful was his punishment for it, as he realized in the midst of his battle.

 

No. This was no battle. Battle were held between equals, and Sparda had realized he was facing no equal. He was the Dark Knight, champion of all demonkind.

 

That meant nothing in the face of a demon's one and only predator. Unchained and spiteful. The Hellwalker. He who had drowned the Titan in its own blood.

 

Before, Sparda had been able to feel Mundus' ambition. It was overwhelming, a single-minded determination that burned like hot embers with the power of the Emperor's spirit. It was a mighty blaze that impressed and humbled the Emperor's servants.

 

In the face of the  _ supernova _ of ravenous fury that spilled from the Hellwalker, it was almost laughably petty.

 

The Doom Slayer was not fighting Sparda. He was executing him. He was clad in armor that the Dark Knight's blade could hardly scratch, and bore weapons that were beyond anything he had ever seen in complexity and brutality. There was never a chance.

 

Execution implied crime.

 

As he was tossed around like so much trash, peppered with more tiny metal shards of pain and wrath, beaten with fists bearing the force of shattering mountains, Sparda felt his fear give way to another new sensation.

 

Doubt. With it, equally alien, was confusion.

 

The Slayer was spoke of in hushed, fearful tones. He was not supposed to be a sadist, a torturer. His undying vengeance was swift and efficient.

 

Why was he taking his time? Why was Sparda's death being dragged out like this? There was no one to make him an example to. They were alone in this barren cauldron of crags and spite.

 

Before he could speculate an answer, Sparda was met with the confusing sight of his own lower body. It took the briefest instant of befuddlement to realize he had been bisected.

 

He shut his eyes, putting to rest any further pondering. There was no point. He had been wrong, and that was that. The Slayer's might had proven it to him. It was dissatisfying to realize he had been serving a lie, but the time to turn on his oath would never come now.

 

He would rest, and mull his regrets in the oblivion that followed death.

 

Were it not so brief.

 

His eyes snapped open, alert and confused. Was this a deeper underworld? Had death decided his punishment?

 

No. No, this was the same place he had died in. Even more confusing, his body was whole. An outside influence would have had to hold him in place while his viscera wove itself together again. Who would display such compassion? That was a human weakness. It had no place in Hell.

 

Annihilating every piece of his understanding of the universe, he found himself face to face with the scourge of Hell again.

 

The Slayer said nothing, taciturn as all the legends had written. No battlecry, no curses, no sound at all. Silent, seething fury was all he had for his hated infernal prey.

 

And here he was, staring at Sparda with his arms folded like a disapproving instructor.

 

Not a word was spoken, and yet Sparda understood everything. The Slayer had sensed his trepidation. His doubts. Sparda had been judged by the only force that mattered, that which controlled everything -- might.

 

And it had deemed him unfit to end. 

 

The Slayer's contempt was still like a vise on Sparda's mind. A demon was still a demon. But he had a purpose that had yet to be found. Something greater than Mundus -- greater than Hell.

 

Sparda had only been without consciousness for a few minutes, but it felt as if he had merely been dreaming since the day he was created. A dream he had only realized now, in the face of his reaper, was an empty nightmare. Pointless, built on lies.

 

He had awoken, and seen a truth no devil had ever comprehended. The fury of the wronged. The vengeance of the weak. The retribution sought by those who knew that there was more to serve than masters and conquest. 

 

His eyes opened, Sparda saw justice.

 

The Slayer pointed in the direction of Sparda's home. The Throne. Mundus' seat of power.

 

The Dark Knight understood. He needed to undo his evil. Repent for the deeds done in the name of his oaths.

 

Sparda rose to his knee and bowed, in a pledge of new fealty. Dismissively, the Slayer shook his head, and it took the demon a moment to realize he had been rejected.

 

"Why?"

 

The Slayer said nothing, of course, and that told Sparda everything he needed to know.

 

Justice is meaningless if it is not your own.

 

Sparda bowed his head in respect before standing to his feet. The last pangs of his pain ebbed away, and he watched the Slayer do the unthinkable as he turned his back on the Dark Knight. 

 

Wreaking vengeance upon this realm was no longer his concern. The Slayer had work to do elsewhere, in his endless crusade, and efficiency was all he cared for. As long as Hell continued to bleed, his course needed no correction.

 

Sparda would not disappoint him. Whether for fear of his wrath or respect for his unending vigil, he couldn't decide. It didn't really matter. A second chance had been given after showing Sparda the light.

 

He would not squander it again.


End file.
